I had breakfast with a friend the other day; he's someone who has been a great supporter, a mentor, and something of a nudge (in the very best sense of the word). We were talking about how teaching takes such a commitment of time and energy and, because I'm an adjunct at two different schools, a sort of mental flexibility that can be challenging. Then he asked, "Are you writing?"
Not enough. I'm simply not writing enough. But I am thinking a lot about the work, which seems appropriate at this stage, when I'm revising the memoir. "Big picture stuff," asking myself the tough questions about whether this scene is necessary, have I gone off track here or does this chapter actually move the story along, did I serve the story well? Just as hard as the initial writing, certainly, yet progress is being made. Large chunks of marble have been turned to dust, revealing the shape hidden inside.
And there this: in one small sliver of my writer's mind, I've started to think about what to write next. So I was happy when, later in the day, I came across this:
There's a story here. I can't wait to find out what it is.